A Lesson in Tightropes
by JenLea
Summary: Life is like a tightrope. Sometimes you go straight and other times you fall. MarkRoger SLASH


A Lesson in Tightropes

Disclaimer: I own no one!

Summary: Life is like a tightrope. Sometimes you go straight and other times you fall.

Pairing: Mark/Roger

A/N- For Aubrey's nineteenth birthday! This song was quoted in our local newspaper and it just seemed perfect for a Mark/Roger fic.

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No matter how broke Roger was, he always made sure to have chocolate milk and cigarettes.

It was one of his little quirks, sitting up all night, quietly sipping a glass of chocolate milk while nibbling on the filtered end of a Marlboro, as he quietly strummed the guitar.

Roger didn't sleep at night.

Mark Cohen had never been one to stay up all night. Then, he fell in love with Roger.

Falling in love with Roger had turned the young man's world upside down. Little things he had always questioned, such as simply getting up in the morning, suddenly made sense. He had no need to get up in the morning, if he went to sleep as the sun went down. Sleeping all day was made easier by the fact he was safely cradled in Roger's arms.

"How can I be so lucky?" Mark murmured, snuggling closer to Roger. "How can I be so lucky?" He sighed, watching Roger nibble on the filter of his Marlboro. "Do you want to share that?" Roger jerked his head and his eyes widened.

"Since when do you smoke?" he asked, taking a long drag off the cigarette. Mark shrugged.

"I occasionally do." Mark murmured, running his hands over Roger's bare chest. "Please?" Roger held the cigarette to Mark's lips.

"I may share my cigarette," Roger muttered, smirking. "I will NEVER share my chocolate milk." Mark nodded, somehow understanding, when he had never understood Roger before.

Looking back, Mark wished he had been clairvoyant. If he had been, he would have known that would be the last true moment of happiness they had. Would he have acted different, if he had known that they would never have the chance to be clearly and truly happy?

The next day, Roger was wheeled out of the loft, on a stretcher, fighting for mere breath, his lungs drowning due to Pneumonia. Mark had been there, holding his hand, struggling to hold back the tears. He knew Roger would have freaked out, if he had seen Mark's tears.

Mark Cohen never cried.

Pacing the waiting room, Mark had never known that a room could be so small. The walls were mint green, in order to give the allusion of cheeriness. Mark wasn't fooled. The mint green paint only held connotations of death and misery.

How many times had he paced this room? How many times had this room led to bad news?

"Mark!" Maureen squealed, running through the moving doors. "We came as soon as you called." Mark nodded, glancing over Maureen's disheveled form. "I threw on the first outfit I saw." She huffed and puffed. "We would have been here sooner but we didn't want to leave the baby with the maid." Joanne followed, looking every bit as disheveled as Maureen.

"How is he?" Joanne asked. Mark shrugged.

"They don't tell me anything. I'm just the man in his bed," He sighed, glancing around. He noticed Maureen's brown eyes, brimming with tears. He noticed Joanne, her lips moving in silent prayer.

"I feel like we're losing Collins all over again." Maureen whispered. Mark sniffled, wishing Maureen had said anything but that. "You were over there," She spun around, pointing to a corner of the room. "Comforting Roger." She reached out, and held Joanne. "And I somehow went into labor."

"Jamison Colleen." Joanne murmured. She glanced up, at the clock. "How long has he been in there?" Mark sighed.

"An hour…maybe two?" he said, wishing he had paid better attention to the clock. "This can't be good."

Then, the swinging doors opened. A doctor, his face grim, approached them. Mark grasped blindly, for something, anything to catch him. He bit his lower lip, wincing only when he tasted blood.

"Roger Davis?" the man called, his eyes focused on the ground. Mark feebly raised a hand. "Please have a seat, Sir." Mark nodded, sitting in a hard plastic chair.

"How is he?"

"Roger's lungs were too badly damaged by the pneumonia. We tried everything we could. For a while, he was stable. Then, the lung damage threw him into a fatal arrhythmia. His heart just gave out." The doctor said. Mark was unsure how to react. He could tell this doctor had genuinely tried to save Roger, and for some reason, he thought hysterics were ungrateful.

The next thing Mark actually remembered in clarity was being back in the loft, the night before Roger's funeral. Despite his wishes, the funeral would be held during the day, the time his beloved despised the most.

Roger always claimed that things became scarily real during the day.

Mark settled by the window, glancing out at the city below. The cars honked, the sirens roared, and yet, in a city so full of life, he felt alone, as if he was the only one in pain.

The old guitar stood by the wall; in the place Roger always left it. There was hardly a time the acoustic wasn't there. Roger claimed that the wall looked lonely without the guitar and it was always supposed to remain there.

A stale Marlboro cigarette rested beneath the guitar. Mark picked it up, holding the tube in his hand. Roger was still there…in spirit. His teeth marks were clearly indented in the filter.

"Roger." Mark murmured, striking a match against the wall, and inhaling deeply as he lit the cigarette. "You don't know how much I miss you." Glancing over to the refrigerator, he wondered if there was any chocolate milk in it.

Finding the familiar brown carton, Mark went hunting in a cabinet, looking for the wine glasses Maureen had regifted one Christmas. Since he and Roger didn't drink wine, the boxed glasses had been thrown in a cabinet.

He found the fancy box behind a package of diapers that Maureen had left there. Pulling the box down, he felt silly. Who toasted the dead with two hundred dollar wine glasses and chocolate milk?

Rinsing the crystal, he opened the new carton and poured the drink the crystal goblet. Dulling out his cigarette in the sink, he inhaled deeply.

Creeping out, he shut the door behind him, not wanting to wake Maureen and Joanne. He knew Maureen was worried that he wasn't sleeping, but he knew she didn't know that they slept during the day.

The dark night sky was lit up with the eerie glow of the full moon. Mark sighed, glancing down at the city. He wished he could just end it all…but then, knew Roger wouldn't have wanted that.

"Hey. Rog" he murmured, speaking to thin air, feeling that Roger was there. "I miss you. Somehow…I'm surviving without you. Just barely." He sighed. "Well, here's to you." He raised the goblet to the sky, and sipped. "I love you."

And with that, he settled on the old tar beach, just watching the stars and wondering if just maybe Roger knew how much he was missed.

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End file.
